


Iron Castings

by Mememachine129



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: An Almost Overdose, And He Knows It, Anxiety, Bisexual Richie Tozier, College, Comfort, Depression, Depressive Drop, Eddie and Rich are fantastic boyfriends, Eddie and Richie are comfort machines, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Happy Ending, Hurt, I just didnt want to put it on teen, Listen it's mature because of the suicidal thoughts nothing happens lads, M/M, M/M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Multi, OCD, Pansexual Stanley Uris, Pillow Fights, Polyamory, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Romantic Fluff, Sad, Sad Stanley Uris, Soft Richie Tozier, Stan Has Thoughts, Stan just needs a hug, Stan needs to talk through his problems, Stan the Man - Freeform, Stan's being an idiot, Suicidal Thoughts, They're around 19-21, because Stan has some Thoughts, mentions of past suicide attempt, psychiatrist, stan centric, stan gets hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 23:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16147697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mememachine129/pseuds/Mememachine129
Summary: Stan, as far as he could tell, had a pretty good thing going for him. He had two amazing boyfriends, six best friends, and a job that paid the bills. He, by all possible accounts, should be happy.So why did he feel so, so, unbelievably terrible all the time?Or,Stan has a drop, and Eddie and Richie help him through it.





	Iron Castings

**Author's Note:**

> Cast:  
> Tarjei Sandvik Moe as Stanley Uris  
> Atticus Michael as Richie Tozier  
> Tyler Young (from when he was on Disney) as Eddie Kaspbrak
> 
> You don't have to use these boys at all! They're just what I imagined when I was writing. Also! They are around 20 during this (:

 

 

Today _wasn’t_ a _good_ day. Hell, it was hardly a _fine_ day. Yeah, Stanley Uris might’ve been a hard bitch to please, but today could hardly get ranked. It was so bad, _Stan_ couldn’t even critique it.

If Stan really thought about it, there was nothing about the day that really changed it from Good to Bad. He’d gotten up at the same time as usual, 5am on the dot, taken a 10 minute shower, dressed, kissed his lovers goodbye, and left for work. The traffic wasn’t to bad, his coffee never spilled, and his boss even complimented his work ethic! In fact, the day would’ve probably been classified as _great_ if anyone else had experienced it.

But Stanley Uris wasn’t just _anyone_.

When Stan has gotten up this morning, the day was fine. It was fine. Fine, fine, _fine_.

God, it wasn’t _fucking fine._

Have you ever been on a roller coaster? Sat down on a stiff, metal seat, sticky with sweat. The sun shining, and the entire park without an ounce of shade. Kids cried and workers groaned around you, but, even with all of that, you still felt excited. You’d been waiting in the longest line in the entire park for _hours_ to experience “the best ride ever!”, as the reviews had said. It was _supposed_ to be amazing.

So you’re in the seat. The metal safety bar is shoved under your ribs so tightly you feel your lungs constrict around it. The stranger beside you is rambling about how terrifying the ride is and you try to listen as you gasp for breath. Another person's sweat is leaking into your clothes and any worker you try to call over rolls their eyes and ignores you. As you make one last ditch effort to relieve the pressure of the bar from your ribs, the ride shoots off.

You fly upwards, the creaking of the chain below the car captivating your ears. The stranger beside you is still talking, but it’s downed out. You push at the bar you and the stranger share, and watch with horror as is _snaps_ up, locking up into its rest position. Suddenly all the excitement is gone, replaced with a _snap_ of fear. You try to pull it back down, to bring back the feeling of safety you _know_ it should’ve provided, but something stops you.

It’s the stranger.

“It’s more fun this way” they whisper, their sweet bubblegum smile flashing before they face forward and raise their arms.

You look forward too, only to find empty air as your car shoots down the rail.

A pit builds in your stomach, drenched in a pool of dread. It grows, grows, and grows until it’s breaking apart your bones by its sheer size. It soaks your body, drowning you in a feeling that freezes your muscles and captures your breath. You try to breath, to squeeze your eyes shut as you open your mouth to scream, but then the pit punches up your throat, choking your scream into the confines of your mind.

Freeze on that for a moment. Let your mind open up, allowing the feeling to fester constantly, shocking your brain with _fear fear fear_ . Letting yourself drown, over and over and _over_ again.

And it won’t stop, no matter how great everything was before. You can’t end the panic. You can only deal with it.

Stanley Uris woke up feeling fine. He left the house fine. He went to work fine.

But every _breath_ , every _thought_ , every _experience_ was laced with the choking pit that soaked him with acid rain.

Stanley stepped through his oak door with a sigh, throwing his keys into the bowl one of his boyfriends, Richie, had won at the fair a few months before. It was hideous, and sure as hell didn’t match anything else in the apartment, but whenever Richie saw it he smiled. And, for reasons Stan couldn’t grasp, he could never say no to that smile.

Taking off his coat, Stan scrunched up his eyes, rolling his arm to the delight of his stressed muscles. As the subtle cracks of bones filled the quiet hallway, Stan’s hazel eyes searched for his two companions. God knows they were either bickering, fucking, or sleeping at this time of night.

The Jewish man walked further into the small apartment, opening up their bedroom door with practiced grace. And even if his mouth wanted to frown at the mess they’d both made, the sight in front of him was enough to let his mind rest, if only for a minute. His two boyfriends - probably husbands if the US wasn’t so dicky with marriage licenses - cuddled together on their Queen bed, surrounded by, no joke, _all_ the pillows they owned - which was actually a pretty significant number.

Richie’s raven curls sprayed across the pillow (that was still clutched in their other boyfriends hand) like a dark halo.The boy’s long nose was tucked into their boyfriends chest, his mouth open and letting out rumbling snores. His long legs curled underneath him, a habit from sleeping on beds to short for his 6’1” stature. His dark pink lips were open in a soft ‘o’ that showed off his to-large front teeth.

The smaller of the two was cuddled beside him, hair squashed into a checkered pillow that _definitely_ belonged to Richie. Brown locks cut into small waves across his forehead. His mouth was closed, plump lips dried together. He wore a pair of Richie’s boxers and one of Stan’s sleeping shirts (that he had deemed “appropriate for stealing”). Next to Richie’s orange band shirt and gray sweatpants, his tan skin seemed to glow, his freckles dancing stars in the light.

Stan wanted to snicker, his imagination encapsulating the pillow fight that must’ve went on just hours before while Stan was picking up calls and calculating numbers. He could imagine their faces perfectly, his almost two years living with the two, as well as nearly sixteen years of knowing them making it simple. But, even with the perfectly clear picture of their giggles and banter, Stan could only muster a soft smile.

He moved along, shutting the door quietly while moving back down the hall to the small kitchen. Undoing his tie, Stan moved along each cabinet, searching for some sort of plastic bowl. He knew he could just grab one of the white porcelain that Eddie had bought when the first moved in. He knew he could just open that cabinet and they’d be there.

But he promised them he wouldn’t use glass when he was like this. He would use plastic. Because plastic doesn’t break. _You can’t do bad things with plastic_.

Stan clutched the newly found bowl close to his chest, every thought of _throw it, break it,_ getting tossed away with an easy _impossible_ . Opening the small corner pantry, he grabbed the clear box labeled “ _Stan_ :)” in Eddie’s neat bubbles. Placing both items on the counter, he drifted toward the fridge.

His movements were almost on autopilot, his footsteps rhythmic and planned. A napkin and a spoon (the later placed on top of the other as not to touch the countertop) were soon carefully placed next to the two plastics.

Like a plastic museum, Stan thought. Heh, plastic museum. How silly. Richie would laugh so hard, fucking plastic-

 

 _Wet. He was wet. Whywhywhy. Why wet. Clothes sticky. Stickystickystickywetwetwetruinedruinedyourfaultyourfaultyourfault your fault your fault your_ fault.

 

White dots streaked along the tiles, some long and stretching along the floor, and others just puddling together in messy blobs. The tiles, black and gray originally, looked painted with the new color. Like a canvas. Like a backward canvas.

 

_Backward canvas backward canvas backward canvas backwardcanvasbackwardcanvasbackwardcanvasbackwardcanvas-_

 

Stan clutched the air, the ghost of a carton  still stitched into his fingertips. His mouth gaped open, a fish out of water, drowning in the overwhelming sensations around him.

 

_IdropIdropIdropIdropIdropIdrop_

 

The events repeated like an old movie, the events shattered but constant. Flashes of color surround his vision, but he isn't seeing. He’s just standing, still gripping a plastic container that no longer rested in his fingers.

Stan’s eyes are shut, but he’s moving. He thinks he’s moving. He can feel himself ripping off his clothes and running, running fast to the bathroom for towels, towels, towels but he doesn’t remember _thinking_ about doing that or even _wanting_ to do that. Thoughts rage in his head, the pit in his stomach lurching to escape, but caught in the web of skin surrounding his chest, his heart, his _lungs_ . His eyes are closed, but he can see. He can see panic, and wet, and the overwhelming mess in front of him that he _needs_ to clean.

But he can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed, because everything he’s seeing isn’t actually being processed in the slightest.

His hair is wet, his skin is warm, there are towels in his hands. These are things he knows, because his brain told him his hair shouldn’t be wet, and that his next job is to dry it, that his skin is warm but _not_ _warm enough_ , and that the towels in his hands need to contain more of the mess, mess, mess.

The backward canvas isn’t as pretty anymore, but it’s contained and that settles his brain. His brain that is _screaming_ and _shouting_ but so very, very _silent_.

 

His breathing is calm. He can see. He’s okay.

 

“One in one million, million, million,” _breath_ , “two in one million, million, million,” _breath_ , “ three in one million, million, million,” _breath_.

 

It was a shutter. Like suddenly the water retreated and the first breath of air filled his crushed lungs. His mind, so filled with storms that raged indefinitely, suddenly so empty that all he could do was stand, frozen, and breath. He breathed, and with each breath came an event, a memory that had happened without him ever asking it to take place.

He had dropped the milk while making cereal. He had cleaned up the milk with- fuck, Eddie’s ugly green towels that he protected so severely from Stan and Richie that he barked at them for even looking at them wrong. Shit how’s he gonna- whatever. He deserves the lecture anyway.

After he cleaned the spill he’d taken off his shirt - Stan looked down - and had yet to put one on, for some reason, and taken a half shower that didn’t actually clean him at all and only made him more wet. But, when he had put his shirt in the washing machine, he noticed a load of clean laundry that still needed to be folded. But as he folded he noticed that all the clothes were- they were-

In his right hand, the same one that had held the milk just minutes (or maybe hours?) before, he clasped an iron. The tool was warm, crackling with steam that poured into the gray collared shirt below his fingers. Each swipe, calculating and intricate, lead by the dainty long fingers of Stan’s left hand. They traced the path along each seam, slowly erasing the w-wr-

God the **_wrinkles_**. How hadn’t he noticed sooner? Surely he should’ve seeked them out immediately, ignoring everything else he’d done that was nowhere _near_ as important. God they covered every surface, every space that Stan wanted- no, _needed_ to be _perfect_. How dare- how _dare_ _they-_

And then the gray collared shirt was gone - _fixed_ \- and then the blue seam of a button up created new lines for Stan to color in. Then another shirt, some khakis, a jacket, shirt, pants, shirt, shirt, shirt-

It all bleed together, Stan’s mind planning in silent agony with every shirt. He felt eerily calm, like there was nothing else he could possibly do, yet his skin _pulsed_ . He wanted to punch, kick, _scream_ in frustration about _something_. He wasn’t really sure.

He only really started focusing once a new thought broke through the barrier of contained emotional chaos.

The pants were navy, nearly button free, and completely wrinkled. The iron, croaking slight under Stan’s fingers, glided along the seam, following the path Stan’s left hand laid out. He’s flipped it over twice, but the pants just keep getting more wrinkled. Stan’s brow was creased, like the pants, and he wanted to smooth it. He wanted to smooth all the wrinkles, everywhere. So many wrinkles. By his eyes, by his mouth, by his fingers.

Each line was mesmerizing, driving his eyes away from his work and toward his dainty hand. He bent his fingers, watching with glazed fascination. He didn’t feel real. He knew, somewhere in his clouded brain that he was controlling his fingers in the natural way he always did, but at the moment he wasn’t so sure. Staring at them as he watched them obey his commands: it was completely captivating.

With his eyes focused on the slow movement, his right hand continued its path down the pant leg. Maybe this would’ve been fine usually, if not for the unfortunate mist that had taken over Stan’s brain.

“OH FUCK!”

And suddenly the mist was replaced.

Stan clutched his hand, sharp pains making every thought freeze. The iron fell from his fingers, crashing onto the ground with a sizzle. Or at least he thought it did. Stan felt himself crouch, the iron board falling and hitting the coffee table before partly snapping closed somewhere behind him.

Stan shook, his right hand squeezing his left. White patterns created mazes long each finger, all ending at the bright, pulsing slash on his pointer. His head was pointed down, looking down at his knees as his fingers rested against his forehead. He couldn’t think, but, at the same time, he couldn’t _not_ think. Everything was there, but nothing was home.

His cheeks were cold. And wet. The beat red and flushed skin grew slick with tears as Stan, the careful and courteous, wept with a burnt finger clutched in his grasp. He shook as the bright flame in his hand seemed to blaze brighter, shooting bursts of sobs through his chest.

“GET READY TO TASTE BAT MOTHER-“ the voice was horse, still thick with sleep, but filled with a primal panic. Stan paid it no mind. Maybe it would stop it. Stop the pain and the wrinkles and the thoughtsthoughtsthoughtsth- “Holy shit- Stan?”

Stan snapped up, eyes wild and confused. The soft blue of his _National Bird Day_ t-shirt reached his hazel eyes, covering a disgruntled Edward Kaspbrak. He watched the boy, who just minutes ( _hours_ , _definitely hours)_ before had been sleeping soundly, drop the bat (that Stan had used to play baseball in high school) haphazardly on the ground, instead kneeling in front of him.

“Stan! Oh my god, are you okay? I heard the crash and Richie didn’t wanna get up so I thought why not show ‘em who’s boss, y'know?” Eddie shook his head, clearing away any other random sentences that might’ve piled out, “But what are you doing out here at 4am? You get up early for your shift or-“

Stan’s lip wobbled, thousands of thoughts pounding his skull against the black hole in his stomach. His eyes were blurry, but the shaky form of one of his best friends let one thought shift into his focus.

“ _E-E-Edd-d-ie_ ” he sobbed, launching himself into the crouched form of his boyfriend. He felt him sway slightly, unsurprisingly startled by Stan’s sudden display, but paid it no mind. He needed help. He didn’t really know how Eddie was going to help him, let alone take care of him considering Stan was a good five inches above his boyfriend, all that mattered was he was safe. Eddie would help. Eddie would fix it. “ _H-H-Hur-rt-t-t-t,_ ” his voice shook, sobs shaking his entire body as his face melted into the crook of Eddie’s neck.

Stan felt Eddie breath in a shaky breath, before clutching Stan close. One hand melted into Stan’s hair, his rough hands twirling the blond curls. When he spoke, his voice was soft, calming, and his breathing was deep. Stan wanted to match it. “Hey, it’s okay. _I’m here_ Stan. _I’m here_.” He felt him move above him, grabbing something out of sight before resting it on the coffee table next to them. Soon, the sharp sizzle of the iron was silenced, instead replaced by Eddie’s slow rocking and quiet whispers.

Stan felt his muscles relax, his mind, though full, feeling clear. His breathing, excluding the occasional catch every once in awhile, soon matched Eddie’s deep breaths. Warm kisses, more of a brush than anything, but like lightning to Stan’s hypersensitive skin, were left on his freckled forehead after every rock. But, even with each careful movement, his fingers blazed with pain.

“Ed-ddi-ie, ple-ea-se” Stan sobbed, the blue shirt sleeve sticking to his cheek with glue-like tears. Eddie wasn’t understanding. He _needed to understand_ . Stan was _hurt_ hurting ( _as well as mentally having a seizure_ ).

He removed his hands from their place tucked into his chest, thrusting them outside the cave he and Eddie had built with their bodies. His hands were shaking, which was already abnormal in itself. But the deep red line from his mother’s favorite iron lined the side of his pointer finger with a maze of blisters.

“Oh my-“ Eddie’s voice cut itself off, becoming choked with shock. Stan looked up slightly, watching Eddie’s doe eyes widen as he watched the red finger. “ _RICHIE_!”

Stan flinched at the loud sound, trying to pull away from Eddie’s grasp. He started to whimper when Eddie just held him tighter.

“Shit, Stan just please hold on.” Stan continued to struggle, trying to curl up into a ball. He didn’t know what he did. He just wanted help. Why was he like this? Ruining Eddie’s night. Eddie bit his lip, his voice begging, “Stan you have to stop- please just stop struggling.” He cradled Stan’s hurt hand, before his voice called out desperately again, “‘ _CHEE_ WE NEED HELP! _RICHIE_!”

Finally a disgruntled Richie stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes in snappy motions. He looked around frantically, squinting in an effort to see without his glasses (which were resting in his hair), “What the fuck-“

“Richie,” Eddie interrupted Richie’s rough voice, his tone strained, “Stan-Stan needs help.” He stopped his eyes scrunching closed as he felt Stan - who had finally stopped trying to form into his comfort ball - squeeze his hand.

 

_He understands._

 

Richie immediately snapped awake, his glasses nearly flying off as he tried to rush to the two, “Help? Shit- did something- it was this morning wasn’t it? I knew something felt off! He never kisses my left-“

“Richie!“ Stan watched through blurry eyes as Richie closed his mouth. Eddie truly was amazing. Eddie continued, his voice calm, but strained, “I need you to get me an ice pack, a bowl of cold water, and a pillow, okay?”

Richie nodded, standing still for a second before sprinting awkwardly toward the kitchen. Eddie turned back to Stan, giving Stan a reassuring smile. Repositioning them, Stan let Eddie move his knees on the either side of Eddie’s hips. Stan liked this position a _whole_ lot more than their previous cradle. This way he could bury himself into Eddie, sitting on his lap like a child. He could hide.

The silence between them was comforting, but the thoughts that came with it shredded every calm feeling.

 

 _What was wrong with him?_ What _was_ wrong _with him? How dare he do this! He was a pathetic, horrible excuse for a human being. How dare he ruin Eddie and Richie's night with his stupid fucking antics. They hate him. They do. They hate him because he’s a selfish bastard who can’t handle a little burn. He’s a selfish prick. He should die. If he died they could sleep. They could sleep and they wouldn’t have to deal with his horrible, pathetic ass. If he died it would all be over and they’d be happy._

 

A crash, followed by a groan, followed his thoughts.

“Fucking ass tits! Did Stan mop the floor or-“ Richie’s voice, tired and hurt, stopped abruptly. Stan tugged on his own blue bird shirt, burying his face into Eddie’s chest. _No no no no._ “Fuck, Eds! Don’t come in the kitchen, okay?” Richie’s voice continued to mutter, but it carried like gunshots in the nearly silent apartment, “Why these fucking towels? Fuck, Stan, why didn’t you just say something?”

 

 _Yeah, Stan, why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell your boyfriends that you feel like you’re flying down a roller coaster with no seatbelt? Why didn’t you tell them that_ I’m _back?_

 

 _Because you’re a_ **_pussy_ ** _, Stanley! To afraid of your own shadow to own up to the fact that without you, everyone’s lives would be better! You want proof? Just look what you did to Richie. He’s hurt because you fucked up and didn’t fix it. You can never fix it because you’re too pathetic to ignore your damn rules._

 

_You’re pathetic. Everything wrong in all of your friends lives is because of you. You got caught sneaking into Eddie’s room and outed him to his mom, which lead to him getting sent to conversion camp. You reported Richie’s mom to the police when she drove you both to school while drunk, and almost got Richie thrown into foster care! You couldn’t even come out to your own fucking father. You’re a pathetic, selfish, bastard, and everyone fucking hates you. Even you hate you. You were told to love everyone, including yourself, your entire life, and you can’t even do that right. You’re meant to die, so speed the process along. It’s better for everyone._

 

“Stan,” Eddie’s voice was cracking ( _because of you_ ), “Don’t say that. Pl _ease_ don’t say that.”’ Stan felt Eddie’s calloused hand weave into his curls, gripping him tight, “I love you so much, okay? _We_ love you so, so much. It-it would fucking _break_ me if you left, okay?”

Stan, who’s arms had been by his side, looked up at Eddie. Finally looked him in the eyes. And. . . And Eddie was crying. Eddie was crying.

Stan’s lip wobbled, every ounce of dread drowning him in yet another wave. Turning towards one of the most important people in his life, Stan reached out, slowly tracing Eddie’s cheekbone. Eddie stayed silent, watching the Jewish man with a slack jaw. Even Richie, who’d been making several bangs in the kitchen, seemed to stop.

Stan traced the cheekbone, moving down to Eddie’s perky nose. He dotted each freckle, creating mini constellations within the brown flecks. Slowly, with his finger so light it barley left electric shocks along each hair, Stanley made his way to Eddie’s lips. All the while Eddie watched him, silent and slack jawed. His cheeks stopped their waterfalls, only focusing on the man in front of him.

 _“Am I your best friend?_ ”

Stan recoiled at the sound. His voice, usually so strong and sure, left only a whisper. It sounded strained too, like every vocal cord but one had snapped during his fit.

“Of course you are, Stan!” There was no hesitation in Eddie’s voice. His brown eyes stared at Stan, almost shocked at the question, but more repulsed by the idea that Stan though they weren’t.

“ _And you won’t leave me?”_ His voice raised as he spoke, his eyes starting to water again (and not because of the pain). Stan bit his lip, trying to stop anything from coming out. _He just needed to know. To prove that the voice lied._

“I could never, Dove, never.” Eddie leaned forward, resting his forehead against Stan’s as he pulled him closer onto his lap. His voice never wavered, and his eyes never left Stan’s hazel.

“ **_Promise?_ ** ” His voice broke.

“I promise, baby. I won’t leave you.” Eddie just held him tighter, rocking him slightly. Eddie stopped for a moment, considering something, “And you’ll stay with us, right? For ever and ever?”

Stan nodded more fanatically, tears slipping freely down his cheeks once more as small sobs left his lips. “ _Ever and eve-r and ev-ve-er._ ” He whispered, his voice breaking into sobs. He closed his eyes, his teeth clenching. He needed to stop, stop, _stop_.

Almost like he could hear his thoughts (Stan was starting to suspect Eddie could), Richie finally came out of the kitchen. Stan didn’t acknowledge him as he knelt beside him and Eddie, only scooting closer until he finally fully settled into Eddie’s lap, sobs still convulsing his chest. Eddie’s Indian style easily allowed Stan to straddle him. Stan laid his head on Eddie’s left shoulder, hiding his face into the crook of the man's neck.

Stan heard Richie sit down, followed by the clattering of a plastic bowl and a couple other unidentifiable objects hitting the floor, “Here ya go, Eds.” Stan could almost hear the soft smile in Richie’s voice.

“Thanks, Rich.” Eddie responded, his voice vibrating next to Stan’s ear. Still so soft and comforting, even though Stan knew he was probably freaking out on the inside.

Stan stayed silent, his brain woozy. He still sobbed, either from pain or exhaustion he wasn’t sure, so he let his eyes fall closed. His body, so exuberant just minutes before, felt like led. Just the _thought_ of moving his arm felt like lifting a semi truck. Luckily, this meant all his muscles were relaxed. This left Stan’s arms lying limp on either side of Eddie, and Eddie having to use one arm to hold  him close to his chest.

He felt daft fingers wrap around his wrist, carrying it off of the floor and toward something else. Stan instinctively wanted to tear away, to kick and scream and _panic_. But he couldn’t find it in himself to think through anything. He just felt numb. And tired. Numb and tired. Heh, that sounds like some stupid indie band that Richie would force-

 

Stan flinched as a cold liquid covered his left hand, but he relaxed not a moment later. _Fuck_.

 

Another hand, one that couldn’t be Eddie’s since he’d wrapped both of his arms around Stan’s torso, started stroking his neck. Nothing harsh, just a firm hand gripping his shoulder while a thumb stroked rhythmic and smooth patterns into his neck.

Stan started to cry harder once he realized who it was. Little sobs of _Rich, Rich, Rich_ muffled into Eddie’s shirt. _God he missed him_.

The faint sting of the burn was getting numbed by the cool water, the blisters (which, looking back, weren’t as bad as Eddie originally thought) stopped pulsing. For the first time in weeks, Stan’s brain felt. . . relaxed.

The three sat in silence for god knows how long (Stan really wasn’t the best with time), the only sound being the Jewish man’s stuttering breaths. A few times Richie would jump up and replace the water, but, other then that, they didn’t move.

Stan’s thoughts were quiet. There were way to many sensations at the moment, to many things happening, for any depreciation. Richie now sat parallel to Eddie, sitting Indian style with the bowl in his lap, one hand tracing Stan’s neck with small constellations. Eddie still held him close, leaving soft kisses along Stan’s ear, neck, and anywhere else he could reach while still keeping Stan in his spot curled into his neck.

Every once in awhile it would get to much, Stan breaking down once again. He just couldn’t understand _why_ they were still there, still kissing and holding him like he wasn’t the reason their night changed so drastically. During those times the thoughts would come back, telling him that they were _liars_ and _fakes_ . When they would get particularly bad, Richie would tell him jokes and puns, and he’d _laugh_

Oh he’d laugh.

He didn’t know what he’d done to get these boys, but he hoped they would never leave.

After awhile, the silence became different. It wasn’t a bad different, not a good different. It was just no longer the silence of having nothing to say.

It was the silence of having something very important to say, but being too worried about the answer to break it.

From Stan’s new nook in the middle of Eddie’s shoulder, where the cloth wasn’t soaked with tears, Stan could see his boyfriends have a conversation above him. No, not a _talk talk_ conversation, one of the special convos the two could have with just their eyes. The losers each had some form of _not-talk-conversation_ , like Stan and Bev’s _eyebrow talks_ or Ben and Bill’s _smile chats_. Eddie and Richie were always champions at speaking with just their eyes.

Stan could watch them for hours sometimes ( _he was very good at watching_ ) just talking with eye rolls and eyebrow raises. It was amazing, how expressive they could be with just a few twitches.

(Sometimes Stan wondered if he liked watching his boyfriends more than he liked watching birds)

The conversation closed with an unsure nod from Richie, before the boys brown eyes were resting on Stan’s.

“Stan,” Richie started, his voice hushed and cautious, “Have you been taking your medication?”

 

 _Wrong. He’s so wrong. He’ll never understand you like_ I _can, Stan_

 

Eddie hummed, taking whatever Stan mumbled as an answer. Stan’s eyes turned to Eddie’s honey brown as he spoke, “Okay, so you’ve been taking it?”

 

_You could say that._

 

The hand on his neck stopped suddenly. Stan missed it.

“Stan,” That was Richie’s voice. Like chocolate. If chocolate could speak. “Have you been taking- _shit_ ,” he stopped for a second, lost. Stan always thought Richie could ramble for days about nothing. Just speaking and laughing, not registering a thing that came out. But he’d come to find that anything remotely emotional left him silent. Richie tried again, his voice slow, “Did you take the amount of pills you were prescribed.”

Stan hummed again, though even to his own ears it sounded hesitant.

Richie took another deep breath, “Have you been taking more than the doctor told you to take?”

Stan stayed silent, his eyes falling to the floor.

“ _Yeah,_ ” he whispered, biting his lip. He knew he shouldn’t have. He’s read the articles, seen the news stories. Hell, he’d heard Eddie talk about it more times then he could count.

 

_Teen Overdoses On Antidepressants_

 

_Accidental Suicide Up 8%, Study Shows_

 

_Colorado Girl Dies After Taking Too Much Medication; according to diary, didn’t feel effects_

 

He knew it was stupid. Unbelievably stupid. But what was he supposed to do? Nothing worked. _Nothing._ No matter what he tried, no matter how long he took it, he didn’t feel better. In fact, he usually felt _worse_.

But this time, this time it had worked. He felt amazing. Like he was a kid running through the Barrens with the Losers again. He was so happy, and _energetic_ . He couldn’t remember the last time he actually _wanted_ to get out of bed.

But then it stopped working.

He stopped feeling happy, he stopped wanting to leave his bed, and he finally lost faith in his psychiatrist.

So he took a few extra pills.

And it _fucking worked_.

And so, for a few weeks, he was happy again.

And then it stopped.

_So he added a few more._

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Dove,” Eddie’s voice was soft, his mind snapping back to the present. His cheeks were freshly wet, and Eddie was holding his face in his hands. He could feel Richie on his back, supporting him while Eddie held his cheeks.

Stan shook his head, “ I just wanted to feel good again, Eds.” He whimpered. His body felt weak, and so, so very tired. He could see sunlight drifting through the curtains and onto the kitchen counters.

 _God how long had they been like this_.

“You will, baby, you will.” Stan leaned more into Richie at his words, enjoying the comforting warmth and the deep rumble of his chest, “But you have to tell Mrs Beth when you feel like this.”

Stan knew he was right. He knew it. But he didn’t wanna think about it.

Stan sighed, feeling Richie’s nose rub his neck. The push of his glasses weren’t there, though, and Stan was definitely sure they were still resting, unseen, on the top of Richie’s head. He smiled.

“Edsie?” He mumbled, the mixed nicknames making Richie chuckled, “‘Wanna sleep.”

Eddie smiled, leaning forward and kissing Stan’s chapped lips, “Okay, Dove,” he smiled, kissing Stan’s cheek. Looking over Stan’s shoulder, he rose an eyebrow, “Rich? Little help?"

Stan looked over his shoulder, watching was a tired smile as Richie awkwardly untangled his legs from around Eddie and stood up. “Your wish is my command, princess.”

Eddie scoffed at the nickname, but his response was silenced by a giggle. Stan’s giggle.

Richie let out a delighted laugh at the sound, crouching down and resting one arm on Stan’s back while weaving the other under Stan’s thighs. He grunted out a joke as he picked Stan up, something about Stan recognizing true royalty, and carried him bridal style into their bedroom.

Stan clutched Richie’s pjs close, the ugly orange shirt smelling to much like Richie’s cologne for Stan to hate it. He rested Stan on the bed, laying him down. Richie grabbed one of his own clean sweatshirts, a pair of Stan’s briefs, and one of Mike’s fuzzy pajama pants he’d given the group last Christmas (which Stan stubbornly refused to celebrate, instead buying his friends gifts during Hanukkah the week before). He undressed Stan quietly, only opening his mouth to ask permission before taking something off. Stan was too exhausted to do anything but nod.

After he was dressed, Richie tucked him into the middle of their king, knowing he would need to get reassurance if he woke up in a panic.

 _God Stan loved him_.

Just as Richie stood up, starting to walk toward the open door where Eddie was doing _something_ in the hallway, Stan wined, making grabby-hands toward his taller boyfriend. Richie laughed walking back over. “Hey there, gorgeous. You come here often?”

Stan ignored him, reaching up his hand and resting it on Richie’s cheek. “ _Thank you_.” He whispered, caressing the pale boys cheek.

Richie smiled, just a little upturn if his lips, and leaned in. Stan kissed him eagerly, his mouth unable to stop his grin. Richie leaned back, brushing Stan’s hair back. “It’s my pleasure, Stanny."

Stan looked at him, his eyes watering again, “ _You make me so happy, Rich.”_

Richie stared at him. He just stared. His eyes, so full of emotion, watered, and an unconscious smile pinched his cheek.

“ _You’re so, so amazing, Stan.”_ He ran his thumb along Stan’s cheek bone as he spoke, the confession nearly breathless.

Eddie’s quick steps interrupted any continuation of the conversation. He knelt down next to Richie, grabbing Stan’s left hand and spraying it with something - probably a pain reliever - before running off again to their bathroom. He came back a minute later with a wet towel and his first aid kit.

Stan tried to watch Eddie work, but his brain had become too numb. From what he could tell, Eddie had wrapped his index finger with a bandage, Eddie and Richie were bickering about something, and sunlight was now hitting his face. He guessed it was maybe 7 or 8.

God, this had to be one of his worst drops. He’d cut himself a few times - hence why he was only allowed to use plastic - but never a _burn_ . Plus, the freak out over _dropping the milk_ definitely wasn’t an improvement. And now he had to miss work, and probably have to explain to his boss why he can’t type as fast for the next few weeks.

How the hell was he-

“Shh, baby,” the bed dipped, Eddie’s small, but athletic form slipping next to him. His voice continued, this time right next to his face, “You can mutter about it tomorrow.” He kissed him sweetly, before tucking his forehead down onto Stan’s chin.

Richie fell behind Stan, curling around him. “Stop singing, birdy,” he teased, kissing Stan’s hair before wrapping his arm over Stan and Eddie’s waists.

 

Stan started the day _fine_ . He left the house _fine_ . He went to work _fine_.

 

He got home _sad_ . He _dropped_ . He _panicked._

 

And he was saved.

 

And Stanley Uris was delighted to say he went to sleep _happy_.

  
  



End file.
